


towing the line

by miriya



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Insomnian festivals, Love Confessions, M/M, Slow Burn, allergy panic, but mostly pining flavored, confused teenage boys tbh, mention of underage five-fingered self-discovery, noct fools around with a classmate, princely fantasizing, some minor angst, sweaty training sessions, yeah they bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-05-03 22:32:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14579043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriya/pseuds/miriya
Summary: Down here I crow for you, you crow for me.Five times Noctis fantasized about having sex (and one time he got it).  Young Noctis is selfish and embarrassing and I love him dearly.  Young Ignis is just ... doing his best.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _like a bird in a world with no trees_   
>  _you were hung up there in your disbelief_   
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who loves sexy sparring? Miri does. Can you tell?

The first time, Noct is entirely unprepared.

It's the tail-end of summer break, and Insomnia feels more like a sauna than a city, hot and muggy and doing absolutely nothing to improve Noct's sour mood. The recycled air in the training hall feels stale and tastes like sweat and grime, and he can feel his t-shirt sodden down the length of his spine, clinging. He'd tapped out some fifteen minutes ago or so, distracted enough to be an obvious danger to himself and therefore waved off by his future shield with a gesture that spoke of both disappointment and annoyance. Ignis had intervened with one of his many true-but-unnecessary excuses, and so Gladio had challenged him instead.

Which has brought them all to this.

Gladio: shirtless and gleaming and utterly at ease beneath fluorescent light like he's been doused in oil, his booming laugh grating on Noct's nerves as he points his wooden blade at his opponent.

Ignis: even now a prim picture in athletic pants, his tank top rucked up along one side to display a stripe of pale, smooth skin as he crouches low to the ground after being parried only heartbeats prior, mock daggers drawn parallel with his bare forearms.

Noct caps and uncaps his water bottle with restless little turns of his wrist. He can't stop staring at that single point of dishevelment, utterly transfixed. He can't stop looking at _Ignis_ , who'd dragged him away from the dubious comfort of his couch and out of his own head for a while, insisting on providing escort lest he be forced to listen to Gladio lecture _him_ on responsibility. He'd _heard_ \-- 

He'd heard Ignis had begun training with the Crownsguard, though not from Ignis himself. It had seemed a little laughable at first, thinking of Ignis of the starchy white shirts and immaculately styled hair and obsession with feeding Noct _vegetables_ as someone who would deign to dirty his hands with the rest of the blade-wavers. 

Now? Now Ignis looks utterly at home in a way Noct could never have expected. His bright green eyes are almost sparking with intent, the fine line of his brows drawn down into an expression of predatory focus, despite Gladio's obvious upper hand. He looks like a coeurl, coiled and tense and ready to strike. Noct can see a glint of white from beneath the slightly parted bow of his lips. A bead of sweat slips down the curve of his cheek, disappearing beneath the sharp line of his jaw.

The bottle cracks beneath the pressure of Noct's grip.

Ignis's head jerks fractionally, just a flicker of attention toward his prince and back to Gladio. And then he strikes -- _pounces_ , really, from Noct's perspective. The way he moves is more a promise of future grace than the real, true thing, unaccountably flashy despite the humble intentions behind it. Noct can see what he's going for, as sure as he can see that Ignis has put a little too much power into his acrobatics. He sees the flicker of frustration on Ignis's face when he realizes Gladio has read him, too.

Noct holds his breath as Gladio shifts his stance and seems to catch Ignis mid-air, using that momentum to his advantage. In the span of a single heartbeat, it's over in a quiet _whuff_ of forcibly expelled breath and clattering weaponry. Ignis lies flat on his back, his opponent straddling his thighs. One of his arms is held to the ground by the flat of Gladio's wide blade, the other pinned by the wrist above his head.

That little gap of skin widens to include a vulnerable slice of bared stomach, and Noct's attention slips back there, peripherally aware of the swift rise and fall of Ignis's chest, the defiant arch of his spine as he attempts to writhe himself free before finally stilling beneath Gladio's uncompromising hold.

"You'd have lost that arm in a real fight," Gladio says, conversational, and Ignis growls out something Noct doesn't quite catch. Rather, his attention is shifting again, to the lean muscle of Ignis's bare arm, trembling visibly and Noct thinks _where did that even come from?_ For all the years they've known each other, he's seen Ignis in various states of undress, and his memory supplies a very different image: raw-boned and milk-pale and unmarked, as only a shut-in scholar could maintain.

A moment later, Ignis turns his head, like he can feel the weight of Noct's attention on him. Maybe he can, given his own growing ability to tune into Noct's frequency when least expected. _Not now_ , Noct thinks desperately as he meets Ignis's startlingly wide stare through a fall of sweat-darkened hair and crooked glasses.

Because Noct is thinking about what it would feel like to be perched on Ignis very much like that, to feel those adrenaline tremors between his own thighs. To pin both of Ignis's wrists above his head while his other hand slips beneath that disheveled shirt to find out just what other changes his babysitter-slash-future-advisor-slash-closest-friend has been hiding from him. And then, just then, maybe --

It's not just his shirt that feels uncomfortably clingy against his body. Noct feels heat spread across his face, and wrenches his gaze away to seek out the doors that lead to the locker room. He feels like he's just been caught witnessing some intimate moment; his own reaction is an uncomfortable blend of vague shame and acute arousal.

Noct doesn't know how to read the expression on Ignis's face, but he can feel his attention still, settled right in between his shoulder blades as he escapes to the necessarily cold embrace of the showers in a hurried attempt to drown his own miserable erection before he's caught out as some sort of weird voyeur.

By the time they make it back to the car, the world has mostly returned to normal. Noct leans against the window in the backseat while Ignis drives, feigning sleep, trying particularly hard not to return to those vivid mental images. He keeps trying through dinner and the ritual back-and-forth with Ignis over royal responsibilities and preparation for the upcoming school year.

Once Ignis is gone, and Noct is left alone with his thoughts and an empty apartment -- well. There's a bit of breathing room to interrogate those earlier ideas, and no real reason outside of decorum to deny himself. Hesitantly, nervously, he takes to his own shower; maybe he's not new to jerking off, but he's absolutely positive that should he accidentally leave any evidence whatsoever, Ignis will find it and Ignis will _know_.

Noct means to put some effort into it, but the remembered image of Ignis pinned to the floor combined with the imagined sensation of Ignis clamped between his legs is too much to hold on to. He comes quickly, huddled beneath the water with his forehead pressed to the slick tile, gasping for breath and that reminds him of Ignis, too, which is no help at all.

By the time Noct crawls into his bed some half hour later, his legs are trembling with exertion and overstimulation, his palm tingling in a way that's both slightly disquieting and deeply satisfying. Still -- the confusion persists like a splinter, just beneath the skin of his idiot forebrain. 

Of all people, _Ignis_?

He hopes the insanity is temporary. He's heard enough lectures about teenage hormones and irresponsibility and poor decision making skills and yeah, this little slip feels right at home beneath any of those headings. 

Nothing weird, obviously. 

Nothing at all to worry about, he reassures himself as he stretches out beneath the covers and surrenders to sleep.

The next day, when Ignis shows up early to attempt another round of experimental pastries -- when their eyes meet over an armful of flour and sugar and four separate jars of Tenebraean honey and Noct feels his heart lurch dangerously into the vicinity of his throat -- he gets the first inkling of how deeply, truly, inexplicably _fucked_ he is.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear there will be more to this than just embarrassing training sessions. BUT NOT YET.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I watched the host drink all the wine_   
>  _and now I’m purring for a drop of anything_

Noct doesn't _really_ resort to petty scheming to sate his curiosity. In fact, eight months later, the specifics of the moment are mostly forgotten. (He still finds himself thinking about Ignis when he lets his guard down, but he's getting better at dealing with it, mostly by spreading his attentions a little further. Sometimes it means classmates, which feels pretty safe. Other times, it means eyeing some of his father's glaives, which is a level of awkward that's almost as bad as what he's running from to begin with.)

It had taken some coaxing to get Ignis to come with him to the training hall; he'd demurred more than a few times, relenting only when Noct pointed out the rarity of him _volunteering_ to train at all, and surely Ignis had learned a few things by now, right?

Ignis can't turn down the opportunity to gauge Noct's growth for himself. Noct knows this -- banks on it, really, and maybe it's a little bit of an inflated ego that has him feeling pretty confident about his odds. Diligent as he is, and as frighteningly perceptive as he can be at times, Ignis is still years behind in practical training. He can't warp, and he doesn't have Gladio's familiarity with fighting someone who _can_. Of course Noct has the upper hand.

Still, Ignis shows no trepidation as he settles his weight over his left foot, watching Noct with placid, measuring regard. Today, he's holding a lance almost as tall as Noct is, and Noct remembers the fact that he hasn't seen Ignis in action that much, either.

It's fine, though. He _knows_ Ignis, as well as he's known anyone in his life, almost as well as he knows himself. Just as Noct knows Gladiolus makes a point of going all out in battle against his prince, he knows Ignis _won't_ , effectively hobbling himself to satisfy one worry or another. For a brief moment, Noct feels a little guilty about it -- that he's using Ignis as a safe outlet for the royal half of his frustrations.

It passes.

"Ready?" Noct grins, lifting his own lance. Ignis lifts a hand to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then nods solemnly.

And then it's on.

The first thing Noct concludes is that Ignis is _way_ too good at looking like a harmless nerd, which is obviously a filthy, filthy lie. As expected, Ignis stumbles a little in dealing with Noct's warp strikes, but he picks up quickly, and when he feints to force Noct into another warp and is there to meet Noct's answering strike at his back, well, Noct wonders just what exactly he's bitten off.

It's not the stress relief he'd initially planned, but it's satisfying nonetheless. Unlike the brute force strikes and parries he's come to expect from Gladio, fighting Ignis feels a little like picking a fight with a rain shower -- like dancing, maybe. They meet, again and again, sometimes in bone-jarring collisions of wood against wood, sometimes in teasing brushes of shoulder against shoulder as they spin away in opposing directions to regroup. There's a fluidity between them, a _knowing_ that leaves Noct startled, and then increasingly alarmed. Judging by the glimpses he catches of Ignis's face in between blows, he feels it too.

Grudgingly, Noct realizes he hasn't given Ignis enough credit. And as he begins to tire, he comes to the conclusion that Ignis is on track to outmaneuver him, sooner rather than later. Ignis is being patient, as he always is, waiting, watching -- wearing Noct down until he has him where he wants him.

A part of Noct is _intensely_ frustrated by that fact. The rest of him is more than capable of admitting a somewhat distracting amount of admiration, because the more undone Ignis starts to look … it's a stark reminder of just how _not_ nerdy and pristine Noct has imagined him.

Noct falters, tripping over the thought and the sudden clench and flutter low in his belly, and it's all the opening Ignis needs to strike.

But Noct has one more trick up his sleeve, dirty as it might be.

Ignis sweeps forward, the blunted, wrapped tip of his lance rising to intersect with the center of Noct's sternum. Part surprise, part pure theatrics, Noct widens his eyes dramatically, breathing a quiet, startled sound -- channeling the distressed damsels of every movie he can recall into what he hopes is an expression of pure fear.

Ignis jerks like he's been slapped, and the trajectory of that strike alters, his grip on the lance going loose in alarm.

And Noct grins as he counters, the butt of his own weapon darting between Ignis's ankles, enough to unbalance him beyond saving. Noct, of course, has no problem exploiting the slip.

Ignis's green, green eyes are alight with surprise when Noct peers down into them from only inches away. They're really beautiful eyes, gold-flecked and seemingly depthless. Ignis is just -- really, _really_ beautiful sometimes, especially mussed and sweaty, pinned to the training hall floor like a butterfly. 

Teenage hormones, yeah. Battle lust. These things will pass, and it is a sign of maturity to let such moments pass by, unfulfilled, unremarked upon.

Noct, steeped in frustration, viciously wills himself to be unembarrassed by the fact that he's a little hard, that he can feel the heave of Ignis's belly beneath him as he gasps for air. Once he's managed to tether his reaction, he falls victim to two of his own revelations.

The first is this: now he _knows_ what Ignis feels like between his parted thighs, all muscle and sinew and warmth and for one brief second, Noct wishes he _would_ squirm like he had when he'd lost to Gladio. Ignis doesn't fight, though, just stares up at Noct and sucks in sharp, short breaths through his open mouth, just letting himself be dominated like this without so much as a whimper of protest, much less a complaint about the dirtiness of the maneuver.

(Noct wonders, briefly and bitterly, if there's some sort of clause about that in his contract.)

The second: Noct isn't the only one aroused by the battle just ended. He can feel the blunt head of Ignis's erection nudging against the back of his thigh, and the reckless part of Noct wants to lean back onto it and the six damn the consequences. He doesn't though -- the flicker of panicked mortification that steals across Ignis's face is like a bucket of cold water poured over both his head and his overworked libido.

"Almost had me," Noct says, as casually as he can grate out, and then pushes himself to his feet, gathering up his lance as he turns toward the weapons rack. He doesn't look back at Ignis, though all of his attention is focused on the sound of him as he sits up. 

He's still sitting there when Noct heads for the showers.

As he's dressing, Noct realizes that he's overlooked one very important thing, which is that Ignis only _acts_ like someone several years older. Just because he acts like someone above petty mortal concerns doesn't mean that he isn't subject to the same unfortunate whims of his own biology. The thought makes Noct feel nominally better, but also incredibly depressed.

Still, when he slips into his own shower and the yearning, familiar tug of his own fingers later that evening, Noct allows himself a little while to consider what it would be like if Ignis _did_ want him like that, if he could feel the full weight of that studious attention on him for _himself_.

Neither of them speak of a rematch, not for a long time after.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe Noct's getting his v-card punched by an oc, but I'm sticking with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _love is in the early mornings_   
>  _in the shadows under the trees_   
>  _not in the cuckolded ashes_   
>  _floating down from the rookery_

The official word being bandied about, Noct learns, is _intractable_. It rubs him the wrong way. How could it not? It's not like he's off giving the tabloids anything to report on, or that he's somehow disobeying the commands he rarely even receives. His schedule is mostly regimented, especially in this, his final year of school. What else is needed?

Ignis ferries him to school in the morning, and back again. His attendance is perfect, at school and at work. His marks are even better. The future king of Lucius, his teachers enthuse, is an ideal student. His managers say he applies himself far more than one would expect from nobility, much less _royalty_ , and that they are grateful for his willingness to engage with his future subjects. And sure, maybe sometimes Noct trades weapons training for a few hours at the arcade with the one friend who _doesn't_ have an investment in molding him into his father's replacement, but by the Six, he's earned at least that much.

He tries, though, he really does. To show his father there's nothing to worry about -- to avoid, when he can, being on the receiving end of Ignis's dismayed, speculative stares.

Noct still feels the walls of the Citadel close around him, even here on the other side of the city.

Maybe the urge to escape is inevitable, whether through the natural process of teenage boundary-seeking or his blood's recognition of itself as a higher authority. Noct kicks at those imposing walls in his own way: quietly, distantly, using as little effort as possible.

All of which makes the springtime of Cato remarkably easy. 

It feels harmless -- just a little bit of fooling around. Towheaded and sharp-witted, with glasses perpetually in danger of sliding off his narrow nose, Cato Humari is also a model student,competition for top marks in many subjects. That he ends up as Noct's lab partner is no surprise to anyone at all. Once the background checks and necessary disclosures are in order, he's even allowed the privilege of hosting the prince in his family's own modest home.

In the rare privacy of Cato's bedroom, between stacks of textbooks and crumpled paper, Noct learns what it is to explore a body that isn't his own. Maybe neither of them are particularly _brave_ in their fumbling, but both are plenty curious and fast learners, truths that occasionally generate their own sort of audacity. 

The combination of Cato's filthy mouth and Noct's insistent hands are a heady combination; that neither of them are accustomed to being denied only exacerbates the issue. Noct likes it when he can seat himself across Cato's bony hips and stroke them both to completion with his head buried against the slope of Cato's shoulder. Cato makes the most fascinating sounds when Noct twists his fingers up into his hair and tugs, quick and unselfconscious, acquiescing to the greedy pressure of Cato's lips and tongue -- the way Cato's soft hands cradle him like something to be wanted rather than endured.

 _Noct likes_ \-- 

Noct likes the way it looks when he opens his eyes and glances downward in rare moments, catching a glint of silver frames and flushed cheeks tucked away under the messy sweep of damp hair, little glimpses of fine, angular features framed by his trembling forearms. He doesn't mean to let his mind wander. 

He doesn't even particularly _want_ to.

But he wonders what Ignis's long fingers would look like, cradling his hips, wrapped tightly around the flushed length of his dick as he sucks him down as far as he can manage. His voice would be softer, lower, a stronger flavor of that aristocratic edge that drives Noct crazy. He'd probably be talkative -- asking if it was all right like this, if he should do something different, something _better_ , mindful and methodical as he maps out the most effective ways to pull Noct apart.

If Cato notices his attention wandering, he's polite enough to never mention it. 

As fond as Noct is of him, there's nothing particularly emotional about Cato's acceptance to an exclusive school in Accordo for the sciences. Neither promise to keep in touch. But they thank each other, in public and in private, for the privilege of one another's company, and trade wishes for the best of luck and happiness.

That evening, when Ignis is driving him back to his apartment, Noct is silent. He watches Ignis idly through the rearview mirror, the way the city's lights reflect in gold and neon streaks across the surface of his glasses. He weighs the accumulated memory of Cato's soft mouth and full lips, and wonders if Cato had spent much time thinking of someone else, too -- or if he had truly wanted Noct for himself. There's an unexpected sadness lurking along the edges of both possibilities, and Noct isn't sure which would be worse.

There's a red cast to Ignis's face, as they wait beneath a stoplight. His eyes look look black in the shadows as his attention flickers to the mirror, concern knotting his brow as he glances back at Noct. What would Ignis say, Noct wonders, if he had any inkling of what sort of thoughts were running through his head?

The light turns green, and the car slips smoothly into gear. Ignis's attention returns to the road.

Noct thinks he will not take another lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bite-sized update. I was really going to try to spread posting out a bit more, but nah. Thank you so much for all the kind words!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct's sixteenth goes badly; poor Ignis is pretty much miserable in every conceivable way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, _many_ thanks to TheFire_in_the_NightSky for going over this chapter with me; as someone who's never experienced or really had to deal with bad allergic reactions, I wanted to have at least some sort of knowledge behind it, and boo came through. ♥
> 
>  
> 
> _i know i'm a hard rock to drag around_

Rookberries, Ignis explains as he lays out a half dozen perfect cream-topped tarts in front of Noct, are a delicacy from the Cleigne region. The bushes they come from are one of the few that can withstand the ashy, sulfuric soil at the foot of Ravatogh, and even then it's only once every few years that they yield their fruit -- which gatherers often must fight the local avian wildlife to harvest. Despite the hardship involved, or perhaps _because_ of it, they are said to taste fantastically sweet, complex in a way that defies the description of even the most talented culinarians. He's waited two full years to get his hands on them, and even then he's only managed to secure enough to barely fill his cupped hands. 

It's a gift he hopes is worthy of his prince; Ignis doesn't say as much out loud, but he doesn't need to. Noct can read it in the line of nervous tension across his shoulders, the gauging, narrow-eyed way he watches Noct consider the pastry held almost delicately between his fingers. His fingers knot into themselves on the counter, and Noct thinks he's never seen Ignis this nervous before. Sweet sixteen, the saying goes, and how better to celebrate that?

They taste like something straight from the blessed gardens of the astrals, Noct decides on the first bite.

By the second, he realizes he's made a terrible mistake

There's a vicious burning sensation along his tongue and down his throat, a wave of prickling heat that rushes over his face, inside and out. Through blurring eyes, Noct sees Ignis's face go from subtly expectant to openly horrified, his face paling until it almost matches the pristine white of his shirt, ghostly in the bright light of the kitchen.

The remains of the tart drop from Noct's still fingers, forgotten.

"No," Ignis breathes. "No, _oh, no_. Noct--"

But it's hard to pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth as the first wild, indiscriminate lashings of panic take hold. Noct opens his mouth to say something -- he isn't sure what. To call for help, maybe, but his voice is a strangled thing, words all but impossible around the bone-dry knot in his throat.

 _Poison?_ Ignis would die first. Noct knows that with absolute certainty, though the panic isn't quite so quick to forgive.

Instead, he stumbles out of his seat, lurching towards the bathroom. Ignis is by his side in a heartbeat; Noct bats away his arm as he reaches out, struck by a vague flicker of guilt at the way Ignis flinches in response. It's quickly forgotten, however, as Noct's attention shifts inward, focus narrowing down to the burn in his mouth and the ache in his gut, the throb of his pulse in his skull and the wheeze of breath that's beginning to feel terrifyingly inadequate.

The next thing he remembers, he's crumpled on the floor between the toilet and the sink, his face roughly pressed against the cool wood of the cabinet door. Ignis is crouched beside him, his phone pressed between his ear and shoulder, shaking as he touches Noct's shoulder and throat. "Yes," Ignis is saying, and Noct's brain zeroes in on the naked fear in his voice. "Lips and tongue. The swelling's bad. You've got -- you've got to bring the car up front. I'll get him down there."

A terrible pause follows, in which Noct wonders if he's going to die. 

"That, too. We'll use it on the way to the hospital." That sounds a little better, at least. Ignis's voice steadies, though his eyes are still wide as he glances at Noct. He turns his attention to the medicine drawer, tossing half its contents into the sink before he finds the box he wants.

The phone clatters to the ground in front of Noct, and he can hear someone talking there. Ignis ignores it, and Noct doesn't have the energy to reach for it, so he closes his eyes until he feels Ignis's hand gather his up, pressing pills into his palm. "Noct," he murmurs, and when Noct squints he can see Ignis crouching in front of him, a cup in his hand. "Take these -- they'll help a little. I'm sorry, I didn't--"

Noct half-closes his fingers around the pills. Moving his arm, though, sounds like an exercise in futility. So he doesn't. "Huh?"

"We think it's an allergic reaction, Noct. Please, we're going to get you help."

"Don't have allergies," Noct attempts to mumble around the dry slab of oversized leather in his mouth.

Ignis growls in frustration and shifts Noct against him, tugging the pills free to press against his burning, swollen lips. "Just -- swallow, Noct. I've got you, I swear. You're going to be fine."

He's still scared, undeniably so, and Noct's panic wants to pounce on that fact. But it's enough to kick his body into action. He makes a face at the bitter taste of the medicine, but Ignis is there with the cup, steadying it as Noct struggles to drink. The water feels good at least, even if he swears he can feel the pills scraping the walls of his throat all the way down.

"We're going to go downstairs, now," Ignis says against his ear, and he's sliding his arms beneath Noct's shoulders and pulling him up, gentle and steady. Ignis has a plan now, and now things are going to be okay, and Noct wills that relief to become his own as he's ushered out of his apartment and down the hallway to the elevators.

He doesn't remember the journey much; just bits and fragments. The dreadful lurch of the floor beneath them as they begin their descent, the way that Ignis curls his arms around Noct, holding him against his chest when his knees threaten to give. The smell of Ignis's cologne, faint notes of vanilla and spice in the hollow between his collarbones. The first rush of cold air as they step outside the building, blissful against his burning skin.

The squeak and give of leather seats as Ignis pushes Noct into the backseat of his car and quickly follows, murmuring thanks as the Crownsguard at the wheel hands him something long and narrow, kicking the car into motion before they're settled. 

Ignis's warm hands, tugging awkwardly at the waist of Noct's sweats. He jolts upright, indignant, but Ignis is whispering _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, just bear it a little longer_ like a mantra as he exposes Noct's thigh and presses something cold and solid against his bare skin. It clicks. Ignis stays statue-still, breath lodged in his throat, eyes on the road.

Relief comes quickly. Noct sucks down greedy gulps of air as the pressure in his throat retreats some, and Ignis draws back hastily several seconds later, tossing the thing to the floor. The point of contact stings like a shot, and a part of him is a little bit mortified at the unexpected intrusion, but he's too grateful for breath and too disoriented to focus on it. Noct remains silent as Ignis readjusts his clothing properly, then turns his head to study Noct for a few long moments.

Judging by the face he's making, Noct figures he probably isn't a very pretty picture. 

"I'm so sorry," Ignis says again, miserably. And that's … unfortunate, Noct thinks through the haze of shock and relief, because now he's noticing the fact that Ignis is rubbing soothing little circles over the spot with his thumb, and if he were in any better state he'd be a lot more receptive to Ignis's hands on his body wherever he wants to put them.

A few minutes later, the shakes hit. When he huddles into Ignis, his future advisor offers no complaint, lifting his arm to let Noct find a satisfactory position before letting it drop again, draped protectively over his shoulder. It's getting a little easier, despite the way his bones still feel like they're trying to evacuate his body, like the blood in his veins is jittering with unspent energy. It shouldn't be possible to feel so restless and exhausted at the same time, but -- none of this should have happened.

Ignis's pulse is racing. Noct can hear it through his stiff white shirt, and despite that it isn't a very soothing sound at all, it lulls Noct into his own bubble of insulated calm.

The rest is uneventful. Noct wakes up in a hospital bed, monitors beeping somewhere outside of his line of sight. Ignis is holding something cool and dry against the side of his face, watching him, and he manages a shaky smile when Noct focuses on him. 

The next time, he wakes to the sound of his father's voice. Ignis has switched sides, and his attention is on the king when Noct briefly squints up at him.

"It's all right, Ignis," he hears his father say. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"He could have _died_ , your majesty."

"Not in your care." Noct feels his father touch his ankle through the thin hospital blanket. "An unfortunate reaction, but no one could have known. Now we do, and now we will all be better prepared."

" _I could have killed him_." Ignis sounds absolutely gutted, and that truth is what spurs Noct into getting involved, despite the fact that he just wants to sleep every part of this experience off and try again tomorrow.

"They were amazing, dad," Noct mumbles, then cracks his eyes open again. "I'm fine. Just -- got surprised."

His father breathes a tired laugh. "I think we all did."

And that's … that, really. He drifts in and out of the following conversation, pointedly turning his face to the wall, away from Ignis after he keeps slipping apologies into every other thing he says. It's not a fun experience, and not one he'd recommend to anyone, but if he's mad at anything it's directed at his own body for rejecting something so unfairly perfect.

When the king leaves, the room falls back to quiet, just their breathing, the steady beep and hum of machinery and the whisper of cool, sterile air filtering through the ductwork overhead. Ignis returns to his vigil, trading out cold compresses, his attention once more fixed solely on Noct.

"It's okay, you know," Noct says eventually. His words are still a little slurred, but clear enough. "I'm fine. _Really_."

Ignis tries to smile, but the effort is rough-edged, a little haunted. "Don't make me say it again."

"Then don't." It's a shame Noct is too tired to roll his eyes like he wants to. "Meant it, okay? Best thing I've ever tasted."

A quiet, humorless laugh. "Figures, doesn't it?"

Noct makes a rude sound, and shifts against the army of pillows at his back, seeking a more comfortable position. He aches all over, but at least it doesn't feel like he's being strangled anymore, so as far as he's concerned the worst is over. Except for the lingering fuzziness in his brain, and the wretched state of his stretched-feeling skin --

Ignis hesitates, the cold compress hovering an inch above Noct's throat. He watches as Ignis looks him over, then snorts, willing himself not to care about his appearance. "Must look like I got dragged through the sewers face first, huh, Iggy?"

"Dragged through nettles, perhaps. You'll appreciate the fact that Prompto isn't here to memorialize the moment on film."

"Ouch."

"It certainly looks that way, yes."

Noct reaches up and covers Ignis's hand with his own, pushing the compress against his skin and breathing an unfeigned sigh of relief afterwards. "That helps." If there's anything positive about any of this, it's that he's being allowed a rare closeness to Ignis, the kind he hasn't really been allowed in years. Now that the danger has passed, his sluggish mind gives that thought some consideration. "No one's gonna want to give me a birthday kiss for the big sixteen. What am I supposed to do now?"

A pause. Then, "let's just say it would ... take a certain type, Noct." Ignis's hand shifts beneath Noct's, molding the compress against Noct's neck with the careful spread of his long fingers. He can feel Ignis's fingertips, breeze-light in his hair and Noct closes his eyes to avoid having to see anything else for a while. _Figures_. 

Yeah. Yeah, it does. Ha ha.

"S'fine," he mutters "Least I know I can look like the backside of a garula and _you'll_ still want in my pants." Noct means to laugh, but it sounds wrong to his own ears, choked and a little bit bitter. That wasn't supposed to be part of the dig, and unaccountably, he finds himself wallowing in a sense of acute embarrassment that just makes him feel that much worse.

"I'm sorry about that, too," Ignis says, careful as a man treading barefoot over broken glass. His hand is deathly still, tense beneath Noct's, but he doesn't pull away. "Had I any other options--"

"Don't _apologize_ ," Noct snaps, then lets out a long, miserable breath. He's really asking to step in it if he doesn't shut up, especially when retreat is blocked by monitors and medical tape and his fierce, implacable guard-friend-advisor- _crush_. "Sorry," Noct says quietly a few heartbeats later, and huffs a laugh at his own hypocrisy. "Hard not to pick on you when you look so serious."

"This is as serious as it gets, Noct." Ignis points out.

"Not really. You had it under control."

That kernel of truth had been enough to keep his head above water tonight. And that -- it's kind of funny. He doesn't remember what it's like to _not_ trust Ignis with his life, but this the first time he's ever really put that conviction to the test. It's a weird sort of pride that he feels, both in Ignis and in being right.

"I let it get that way," Ignis breathes. 

"So be glad it was you and not Prompto," Noct says, and taps the back of Ignis's knuckle with the tip of his finger for emphasis. "Could have been him. Could have been somewhere else." 

_Glad it was you_ , Noct thinks, adding yet another reason to a long, long list.

Ignis, it seems, doesn't have any response, and Noct is grateful for that, too. 

 

Noct dreams, in the early morning hours, of shifting light and muted sounds, fantastic landscapes he doesn't recognize and won't remember. He dreams of a naked body pressed knee to shoulder against his own. He dreams of soft hair bunched in his hands and soft, eager lips slick and moving over his, dreams of chasing an indescribably perfect sweetness on a foreign tongue. The burn of it feels good, this time.

His lover is a shield; quick and clever as any blade, guarding him from harm. They fit together perfectly, convex to concave, like they were made for one another. Noct dreams of safety, and a luminous glint in summer-grass eyes -- love and desperation to answer his own. He dreams of a mouth against his throat, chilled fingertips soothing arcs and circles against his face, warm breaths against the hollow of his throat. He dreams of his name, whispered like a benediction, over and over.

 

When he wakes, Ignis is no longer hovering over him. The compress, warmed to his skin now, is still against his neck -- if only just. Ignis's fingers are still resting against it, threaded with Noct's.

When Noct finally pries his dry eyes open, he follows the line of Ignis's arm across his chest to see Ignis's head pillowed in the crook of his own arm, glasses spilled carelessly beside him on the blanket. It's been years since he's watched Ignis sleep, and it's startling to see how much younger he looks like this, oddly vulnerable without the weight of his station to armor him.

Noct is beginning to suspect that neither those rogue teenage hormones nor the lingering effects of the prior night's reaction can account for the way his chest goes tight as he keeps his own vigil. He's not sure what to do about it, if there's even anything he _dares_ do but ride it out. Ignis isn't safe like Cato was. Ignis is dangerous and beautiful and devoted in a way that Noct still can't fathom -- bound to him, presumably, for life. The idea alone of fragmenting that bond is enough to make his blood run cold.

Is this better, then?

He wonders.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one gets significantly more spicy in the solo department, so I'll top out the rating just to be safe. Some liberties have probably been taken with Iggy's Crownsguard induction, but there's no definite date outside of 'he's 18' so whatevs.
> 
> Poor, poor Noctis. He absolutely brings this on himself, no matter how noble he tries to be. Ignis is just along for this wild, inexplicable ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I say "I’m the westerlies in Ireland_   
>  _so decadent and violent_   
>  _can’t you see I’m a forager_   
>  _crawling at the bedrock?"_

Noct is staring. He knows that -- knows he has to look like an absolute idiot with his mouth open like it is, but he can't _not_.

"You disapprove?" There's a curious lilt in Ignis's voice; were it anyone else, Noct would know it as nervousness. But Ignis doesn't really _do_ nervous much, and like this? He looks like the very idea of _nervousness_ is laughable.

After a few more moments of protracted silence, Noct forces his mouth shut, then shakes his head. "No, it's not that. You just…"

Ignis hums noncommittally, but his exposed thumb is running over the back of his knuckles as he clasps his gloved hands loosely in front of him. "I -- didn't have much input. Much of it was the marshal's suggestion, if Gladio is to be believed."

Noct can't help but breathe a quiet laugh. Bless Cor, and his keen taste for military chic. "I believe it. Um, what happened to your other glasses?"

"They no longer seemed suitable."

Noct realizes he can't argue that. Those thick frames wouldn't have done this newer, sleeker-looking Ignis justice at all. The Ignis that stood in Noct's kitchen last night and made rice balls while they discussed the impact of the failing water system in Longwythe was a buttoned-up, formal creature. Today? He looks like he's stepped off the cover of some supermarket magazine, all _celebrity of the month gives an exclusive tell-all interview and here are plenty of perfectly illuminated shots_ except it isn't, it's just Ignis in the overwarm light of Noct's entryway -- styled up and dressed down and utterly, breath-catchingly _devastating_.

The glint off of the familiar tiny skull hanging at the hollow of his throat, framed by the artful spread of his open collar feels like it's mocking Noct. He bites the inside of his cheek, to stop himself from what's starting to feel like Inappropriate Stare Number Two. "Good call," he says finally, annoyed just slightly by the sudden dryness of his mouth.

Noct gestures hesitantly. "So this is -- it, huh? All official and everything."

Ignis is watching him with that careful look again. "It is."

"You look … cool. Didn't think it was possible, Iggy, but you did it. _Wow_." And oh, that's a lie; Ignis manages to look cool at pretty much anything he's doing despite the preppy choirboy aesthetic thing he's had going on for the entirety of their lives together, but Noct doesn't feel the need to point that part out. He's tried to play it careful since that little scene in the hospital, and he's smart enough to know that he's in a prime position to make a complete idiot out of himself if he doesn't keep it in check.

Still, Noct's compliment, teasing though it might be, seems to ease that look some. "Good to hear." Ignis offers him a faint smile, then gestures down the hallway. "Now, might I come in?"

 

Later, Ignis watches over a pair of pans on the stove. He's turned up the sleeves of that coeurl-print shirt to his elbows, and Noct alternates between attempting to read the report in front of him and watching the play of muscle along Ignis's forearm, the way the tendons stand out on the back of his hand as he works.

Eventually, Noct blurts, "are you really okay with this?" Maybe that should have been the first question, but he'd been wildly distracted -- still is, obviously. But it _does_ matter.

Ignis glances up, one perfect brow lifting over the sleek rim of his new glasses. "With what?"

"Being Crownsguard. Pretty sure that isn't a necessary part of the job, Iggy."

Ignis shrugs, and it isn't fair at all how elegant he makes that look. "A little late for questioning now, don't you think?" He looks like he's content to let it go at that, not bothering to look at Noct, his attention instead on an open crock of some sort of infused salt -- one of the many Noct seems to have accumulated over the years without realizing.

But Noct remembers: Ignis as a child had been startlingly gentle, all but wringing his hands the first time he'd observed one of Noct's training sessions, flinching along to every blow and missed swing. Gladio had laughed at him and so Noct had joined in, but he had felt so secretly pleased by the concern. It still makes him feel warm inside, the way Ignis gets after a particularly rough match, even if bandages and ointments have been largely replaced by the quick fix of a potion over the last year.

"Iggy--"

Ignis shifts on his feet, brushing salt from his fingertips. "I could not allow myself to become a liability to you, Noct."

Noct scowls. "You never have been. Never would. Anyone who says otherwise--" He lets the threat hang between them.

For several moments, the only sound between them is the slow, methodical scrape of wood against steel. Ignis reaches for a plate, then hesitates.

"When the king was younger," he says at last, quiet. "He had a number of companions. The marshal. Gladio's father. A mechanic--"

"I know the story," Noct cuts in. His father's great roadtrip, another in a long line of Lucian defeats. He thinks about them far more often than he'd like.

"--and his steward," Ignis says, ignoring the interruption as he plates Noct's dinner. "An extremely devoted man by all accounts, but one ultimately ill-equipped for the situation they found themselves in. Your father and his comrades had to leave him behind before the end of the journey. He remains in Altissia, still."

Noct makes a face; he hadn't heard _that_ part. For one reason or another, he'd always lived under the assumption that the steward had died. He stares at Ignis, utterly dismayed at the suggestion and the accompanying thought; he knows there are a lot of people that believe his father abandoned a lot, back then, but there's a new level of _personal_ hearing it out of Ignis's mouth. "You're worried I'll ditch you?" What a stupid thing to think.

"Best to avoid the need for such a decision in the first place," Ignis says. "What would you like to drink?"

" _I wouldn't leave you behind,_ " Noct says hotly, offended by the idea. That he might. That Ignis might have ever in his _life_ thought he'd need to be concerned about being abandoned.

Ignis smiles faintly at the plate in his hand. It's an odd look, odder still cracking the edges of the too-cool veneer of his new stylish self -- the kind of look that Noct never really learned how to read.

"I _wouldn't_."

Ignis settles the plate in front of Noct, and then finally lifts his gaze to acknowledge the outburst. "I believe you, Noct," he says quietly, and _that_ smile is much more welcome and familiar. "But even so, I would rather stay as close as I can. It seemed a logical choice."

It isn't fair, the way it sounds like a confession, or the way it makes Noct's throat tighten in response. He feels his face threaten to go warm, and he chokes on an embarrassed half-laugh to dispel that yawning sense of hovering at the edge of a crumbling cliff. "Well, if you wanna hold my hand everywhere we go, who am I to argue?"

 _Shut up, Noctis_ , he thinks with uncommon ferocity, right around the time Ignis's eyes narrow just slightly, those incredible lips pressing into a tight, thin line. If his foot has a taste, Noct thinks it's bitter acid -- what's meant to be a harmless tease once again comes out of his mouth sounding like mockery, and that's not fair to Ignis at all.

His embarrassment wins the moment, however, and he pokes at his food gingerly with a fork. This time, it's Noct who can't quite meet Ignis's eyes. "The lemonade is fine," he says quietly.

Ignis hesitates for a few heartbeats, and Noct hunches down a little further under the tangible weight of his attention. He hears his friend breathe a quiet sigh, and move for the fridge. Ignis is -- he's just doing his job. Noct isn't stupid enough to think that's the only reason, but he knows it's a major one, and it's not Ignis's fault that Noct is secretly having an absolute crisis inside his own skin over him.

And anyway, the way he bottles up like a pissed-off teacher tells Noct all he needs to know.

It's fine. Really, it's fine; Noct isn't new to denial, from within and without. He's watched his father long enough to know that it's a natural part of what it means to _be_ a king; when his own time comes, he will give and give and _give_ until there's nothing left to offer. There's no need to think beyond that.

Ignis serves as an unwitting example of that, too. When he returns to set the chilly glass bottle in front of Noct, there's no sign of resentment, no matter how uncomfortable he'd been only moments ago. The closest thing to certainty Noct has in his life is the fact that Ignis _will_ be there, no matter how often Noct abuses his generosity and patience. 

Because he does things like allow himself to be shaped into a soldier just so he can _stay_ there.

How is Noct not supposed to love that?

"You're not eating," Ignis says cautiously. "I promise I didn't put anything strange in there."

"Sorry," Noct mumbles, eyes still downcast, and listlessly shoves a forkful of eggs and delicately seasoned steak into his mouth.

 

Ignis must have been significantly distracted, Noct thinks. Or maybe still unused to the new uniform.

Either way, he leaves those strange, shimmery gloves tucked neatly beside the potted aloe on the counter when he leaves for the evening. Noct waits for almost an hour to make reasonably sure Ignis isn't going to be coming back before he dares to take them in his own hands, running his thumbs along the buttery soft leather of the palms. The gloves compliment Ignis perfectly, sheathing his lovely long fingers like second skin; Noct observes with a flicker of amusement that his own hands are a bit too wide, his fingers too short to look anything but preposterous when he slides them on himself.

Still, he takes a moment to appreciate the idea of shared space, the sensation of an admirer stolen into the secret places of the admired. Ignis's hands have been here, and now his are. The press of soft leather against his fingertips is what Ignis feels when he wears them. _This_ is what it would feel like against his own bare skin, should Ignis touch his face. Gentle, so gentle, sketching along the curve of his cheek. Tracing his lips, top and bottom. Whisper-soft down his throat and chest and stomach and --

Noct wrenches himself out of the sharp nosedive his imagination is taking with a hard shudder, tugging the gloves off his fingers and tossing them back onto the countertop like they're something poisonous. He's breathing hard, _aching_ to continue.

But not like this. While it might be Ignis on his mind -- while he might be half _out_ of his mind at times with how hard he finds himself falling in moments like these -- he's not too deep that he doesn't recognize the inherent wrongness, too. 

That hot flare of guilt does little to temper Noct's arousal. Out of sheer frustration, he doesn't bother with the shower or his little rituals of secrecy. Instead, he dumps his clothes off the side of his bed, fumbling in his bedside drawer for the box of an old handheld game system -- the boring, unremarkable home for a half-used bottle of lubricant. 

Noct isn't thinking about those gloves anymore, at least not wholly; no, he'd rather have Ignis's hands naked against his skin. He's imagining the soft scratch of Ignis's shirt beneath his fingertips, the unexpected nap of Ignis's neatly folded collar caught between his own fingers.

There's not enough patience to warm up the lubricant in his hand. He palms himself, hissing at the chilly, slick sensation against his too-hot skin, but the resulting slide is beautiful. Ignis would be more considerate. Ignis would whisper promises against Noct's mouth, would wind him tighter and tighter until he's only heartbeats away from pleading before wrapping him up in his perfect hand.

Maybe Ignis's fingers would feel like this, against and around and then finally, _finally_ slipping inside. But they'd be longer. Slimmer. _Better_ when they curl into his body just _so_ , and if Noct was feeling daring enough, he might ask him if Ignis touched himself like this -- if he thought about Noct while he did it, stroking himself inside and out.

Ignis would be beautiful when he touched himself, though: thighs parted and trembling, face flushed and mouth open to suck down greedy breaths of air, all undone like he'd spent the last few hours on the training mats -- 

The mental image is more than Noct can bear; a strangled, keening sound stutters its way out of his throat as his whole body goes taut and still, save for the uneven jerk of his cock as he comes. His body throbs around the fingers of his other hand, clenched tight. The immediate sense of relief is real, but it's not enough, because it isn't what he _really_ wants.

(Noct is fairly certain he's going to go crazy, if he isn't there already.)

He falls asleep not long after, sticky and exhausted and heart-hungry, curled atop the covers of his bed. 

When Noct wakes in the morning, it's in a near panic; he'd been so caught up he'd forgotten to set his alarm, and Ignis's measured footsteps are a familiar echo in the hallway. He nearly trips over yesterday's jeans and all but dives into the attached bathroom before he hears the familiar knock on his bedroom door, but that's not much of a sanctuary, either.

At least he's too mortified to sneak in a second round while Ignis waits for him to get ready. Or --

 _Oh, six_ , goes through the morning routine of tidying up.

In the light of day, his bravery falters -- and sure enough, when he steps out of the bathroom, his bedroom once more looks like something out of a brochure. The floor is spotless, discarded clothes taken to the laundry. The comforter is encased in a different duvet than the one he'd had last night.

_Oh, six._

When he tugs open the bedside drawer, there's an innocuous, half-filled bottle tucked inside, right beside the empty box that had until so recently housed it.

It takes sincere effort not to bury his face in his hands, and several minutes of fighting for composure before Noct slips out of his bedroom, footsteps light on the hardwood floor. Still, Ignis's preternatural sense betrays Noct, and he hears Ignis call out the time several seconds before he makes it into the kitchen.

Noct can't quite bring himself to meet Ignis's eyes. Instead, his attention stumbles over Ignis's hand curled around the neck of a bottle of juice over a backdrop of deep plum and coeurl spots, and can go no further. He feels his face warming, and briefly considers the merits of self-defenestration.

"You won't have time to eat if you don't hurry, Noct," Ignis says.

Startled, Noct glances up. Ignis is watching him placidly from behind those new sleek frames, the absolute picture of composure, like he hadn't just spent a few minutes playing unsuspecting maid in Noct's personal shame cave. 

Noct wants to apologize.

Noct kind of feels himself dying on the inside.

"...not hungry," he finally grinds out, then sweeps past to gather up the day's needed files.

"You'll be singing a different song well before lunch," Ignis replies, unperturbed, but he doesn't stop Noct. Instead, he busies himself spooning Noct's breakfast into a wrap, reciting the morning's relevant news entirely unprovoked.

It's all frighteningly mundane, like every other morning. Slowly, Noct finds himself relaxing, those flickers of bristling internal defiance sputtering out until he's asking questions about the day's upcoming meetings and promising not to forget the council's report that lies untouched on his kitchen table tonight.

"I'll help you, if you'd like," Ignis says. "These territorial disputes aren't so difficult as they've been presented, but we must still observe proper respect."

Noct pauses, then nods. "I'd -- appreciate that. Thanks, Iggy."

That earns him a faint smile, and Ignis presses the wrap into Noct's hands before he tilts his head toward the door.

Maybe Ignis just doesn't care -- a thought colored with relief and wistfulness, both. But it makes things easier for the time being.

At least until Ignis pauses to retrieve his gloves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snicker with me at secret fashionista Cor, please. I love this old man and really want to write awful things with him in them, what. Also holy heck, I can't believe we're already pushing the resolution. I'm gonna need a little time here, since I'm still debating a few different scenarios, but I hope it's worth it for you folks still reading to stick around!
> 
> Thanks for your time, by the way. I really appreciate it. ♥


	6. Chapter 6

Street fairs and festivals aren't uncommon in Insomnia, increasing in frequency the further and deeper one goes. According to Ignis, it makes plenty of sense; refugees and newcomers tend to cluster into the areas where their fellows have gone before. Such groups bring with them their own traditions and celebrations, many of which are diluted over generations until little remains beyond the call to party with wild abandon.

Noct doesn't understand it, not really. So many of these celebrations are approached as victories, when in truth there are few victories to be had in the stories they revolve around. An Oracle's blessing, a past king's intervention, successful escape from the ever-hungry maw of Niflheim's war machine … to wind up here, scraping out an existence within the tall shadow of the wall. It hardly even feels like the same city, from his perspective.

_Humanity's greatest strength is its resilience_ , Ignis says matter-of-factly as his car idles on one of the bridges connecting the heart of Insomnia to the outer districts. _To live on in the face of overwhelming opposition is certainly worthy of celebration._

There's less and less light as they wind their way toward the outskirts of the city. The architecture shifts away from the gleaming, modern towers Noct is more familiar with, giving way to narrower, pitted streets with faded paint, patchy brown and gray lots in lieu of carefully curated parks and gardens. _Different things thrive here_ , Ignis says when Noct asks, and the closer they get to the river, the more he sees that's true. Ferns push up through the edges of cracked sidewalks, and flowering ivy climbs the thick, towering pillars that hold Insomnia's greatest arterial freeway aloft.

The people here, too, are markedly different. Children play streetside in front of worn-looking apartments under the eye of tired-looking adults, dressed in mixed fashions Noct remembers from his own youth. It's hard to believe this is still Insomnia -- that these, too, are his people.

Noct can't imagine that a life down here _wouldn't_ be depressing … but he doesn't see that reflected in the faces of the people they pass, at least not in any greater number than he sees in the parts of Insomnia he's familiar with. _They might say the same about you, you know_ , Ignis says as Noctis struggles to articulate his thoughts. _Come on, then. Let's see for ourselves, shall we?_

It's a fortuitous alignment of opportunity and curiosity: Ignis itching to get his hand on a certain breed of mushroom found rarely outside the district's merchants and eternally interested in unfamiliar cuisine on display during such festivals, Noctis itching to test some of the new freedoms accorded to him with his eighteenth birthday and eternally interested in _Ignis_.

A not-date, then, though Noctis -- sitting in the front seat, this time -- briefly lets his mind linger on what it _might_ be like.

Surprisingly, they're not terribly out-of-place among the throngs of revelers. The interest in people's eyes as they pass seem to linger far more on Ignis than himself, and _oh_ , Noct gets it, absolutely. Off _official_ duty, Ignis isn't wearing his Crownsguard uniform, but he still manages to make his soft gray henley and fashionably weathered black denim look unfairly good. 

Frankly, the dark, slightly shiny blazer draped over his arm is just overkill.

It's a little hard to hear one another over the cacophony of revelers flooding the streets -- as well as various musicians stationed every dozen yards -- without shouting, so they communicate via smaller, more intimate gestures to get one another's attention. Noct leans into Ignis's shoulder and points at a dingy tan tent selling some marvelous-smelling meat on skewers. Ignis taps Noct on the elbow and directs his attention to a smaller stall with braids of garlic hanging from pegs, as well as strange vegetables Noct doesn't recognize and doesn't care to. Emboldened, Noct curls his fingers around Ignis's wrist to pull him toward a table of fluffy pastries in a riot of bright colors, and Ignis doesn't pull away even when Noct's grip lingers a little longer than absolutely necessary.

It takes Ignis a few tries to find his mushrooms, but shortly before sunset he's dodging around a group of half-intoxicated celebrants in stylized arba masks as he tucks a folded white bag into the pocket of his blazer. Noct doesn't do so well dodging the young blonde woman with delicate-looking daisies woven into her hair -- before he can think of a good reason to say _no_ , his pocket is a little bit lighter, and he's cradling a half dozen golden lilies in the crook of his arm, looking utterly abashed.

Ignis arches a brow over the rim of his glasses in a silent question, but Noct just shakes his head, tilting his head toward an ice cream cart.

The fireworks start, soon after. Nothing so flashy as what plays out above the Citadel on important occasions, but Noct thinks they're probably more appreciated down here. He and Ignis have secured a bench near the waterfront, and they're sitting shoulder to shoulder with stacked, quickly melting ice cream cones, watching the display. The smell of phosphorus hangs heavy in the air, hovering over the top of the industrial stink from the factories across the water, but Noct can't find it in himself to mind.

He's a little more distracted by the quick flickers of Ignis's tongue as he eats his ice cream, but even that feels peripheral to the line of warmth against his arm, the comfortable weight of Ignis's _presence_ so nearby. 

It should, by all rights, be enough. Noct knows he has no right to want more, but his brain and his heart haven't quite settled their argument yet; in the moment, it's easy to return to his prior thoughts. If it _were_ a date, they'd be a little closer, maybe. Ignis would offer his blazer at the first sign of a chill in the air, thoughtful and prepared as always.

Noct shivers -- at the thought, yes, but also because it _is_ cool by the waterside, and the ice cream isn't helping at all.

It isn't even fifteen seconds before Ignis is draping his blazer over Noct's shoulders, and he bites the inside of his lip to kill a giddy smile, murmuring his gratitude as he huddles into the silky interior. _Well_.

If it _were_ a date, they would kiss as the fireworks work up to their climax, but the force of his own desire isn't quite enough to move the earth _that_ far. Instead, they add their own calls of appreciation and applause to the swelling cheer of the crowd around them. The music starts up again moments later, the disparate musicians all somehow falling into the same lively song that winds through the streets and down toward the waterfront, echoing from the buildings reaching high overhead.

Instead, Noct stuffs the last of the cone into his mouth, and resettles the flowers in his arms before he turns to look at Ignis. "She thought I was your boyfriend," he says, so quietly that he doubts he can even be heard clearly over the crowd as it begins its migration back toward the street proper.

Ignis hesitates. "I'm sorry?"

"The girl with the flowers. She said a guy that good looking deserved her best stock. And that I--" He laughs, a little nervously. Doubting himself now that his mouth is running, of course, and to be honest he has no idea what he's doing. All he knows in this moment is that his heart feels full, incredibly heavy. "That I'm really lucky."

Ignis turns to glance at Noct, and his expression is skeptical. Careful. "A clever saleswoman, sounds like."

Noct can sense the disapproval in Ignis's voice, and that isn't what he wants to hear at all. He tries to quell a flicker of annoyance. "Well, it's not like she was _wrong_."

Ignis starts. "A development I seem to have missed."

"I meant that I was lucky, Specs." The fear response is out of Noct's mouth before he has time to think about it.

That careful stillness seems to fall over Ignis again; his brow furrows as he turns his attention back out toward the water, and Noct wonders if he hasn't made a terrible mistake in saying anything, much less saying it when he's who knows how far away from home and sort of at Ignis's mercy to get back there. Not that he thinks he'll be left -- Ignis absolutely wouldn't -- but that doesn't mean the ride would be half so comfortable as it was coming here.

He should have kept his big dumb mouth shut.

But here they are. In the awkward silence between them, Noct has time to consider. Ignis had thought -- Ignis's _first_ thought -- was that Noct had decided they were a _thing_. Not that he was breathtakingly attractive, or that Noct was stupidly lucky to be anywhere near him, but … that.

Ignis isn't moving. His profile is unreadable when Noct works up the courage to look his way, but Noct has known him almost his whole life. There's visible turmoil in those shadowed green eyes of his, a steel-wire tension in his spine. "My apologies," Ignis says. So quiet, like he's a thousand miles away. Ignis doesn't look back, but he clears his throat, resettling his glasses on his face like he does when he's deeply, deeply uncomfortable. "That was uncalled for."

Noct doesn't say anything for a little while, afraid to inject additional tension between them. He's a little embarrassed still, but that heart-heaviness is only getting worse, a tangible pressure in his chest and throat that threatens to climb upwards and expose itself. He wants to speak, but the fear of getting it wrong is even worse than just letting the moment pass. They've done awkward plenty, over the years. It's easy enough to pass off as a joke -- Noct would, maybe, if he could find the words, dishonest as it might be. 

The flowers are like lead weights in his arms. 

"The fireworks were lovely," Ignis says hesitantly, offering Noct the obvious opening. Knowing, of course, that he needs one.

For some reason, that just makes Noct ache even more. And so he lets the silence linger as his brain scrambles for another path to salvation. Beside him, Ignis seems to shrink into himself, just a little, and Noct knows that in his refusal, he's just making it worse for his closest, most loved friend. 

_Different things thrive down here,_ Ignis had said, and thought nothing of it. Wise, beautiful Ignis, whose eyes can so easily see what Noct can't. How has he missed this thing that's taken over him? So many times, Ignis has proven that he knows Noct as well as he knows himself, but he remains stubbornly blind now. 

Ignis hadn't laughed it off, hadn't denied the idea.

Or ... perhaps Ignis had simply given him more than one opening, and Noct had been too afraid, or just too stupid to take it. And in doing so, he'd once again forced Ignis to shoulder the responsibility. 

Noct doesn't know if that's right, but he wants it to be.

Noct swallows, forcing his nerves to settle as he turns on the bench to face Ignis. "You know, though," he says quietly, pausing in an unsuccessful attempt to ease the tremor in his voice. "I'd hate to prove a pretty girl wrong. Two out of three isn't a bad call, but three for three would be pretty impressive, you know?"

He doesn't have much experience being _afraid_ in Ignis's presence. One way or another, he supposes, it'll end soon enough. There's worse coming in the future, he reminds himself. A little rejection isn't going to be the end of him, and at least Ignis won't be cruel about it.

But for now, Ignis is choosing to maintain his own silence. Some of the tension relaxes in his spine though, which makes Noct breathe a little easier. 

He holds the flowers out: a peace offering. An invitation.

Finally, Ignis turns his head. Not looking at the lilies with their blossoms the size of Noct's hands, but at Noct himself. His eyes are wide and dark and more difficult to read than Noct would like. "I'm not sure what I should say," Ignis says quietly.

"So say yes."

It's Ignis's turn to swallow. His expression goes from guarded to soft, and Noct fights off a sigh of relief. This is the hardest thing he thinks he's ever done in his life, but it feels … good, too. Even the fear that comes with waiting feels better than straining beneath that miserable pressure.

Ignis's gaze drops to the flowers held out between them, the pale lines of Noct's arms extending from beneath the fall of his own jacket.

"If you want to, I mean," Noct adds as an afterthought.

And Ignis _laughs_ then, soft and startled and absolutely perfect. "It's a little sudden, admittedly," he says, to which Noct can only roll his eyes. But he's not upset, and he's not backing away, and that feels like a good sign. Noct supposes it's his turn to give Ignis a little time.

But not too much -- especially when these flowers aren't getting any lighter.

Eventually, Ignis reaches out. Hesitantly at first, but his hands are solid as they fit under Noct's, and the slow smile that tugs at the edge of his lips is the warmest thing Noct thinks he has ever seen. "You certainly have a way," he murmurs. "May I ask what brought this on?"

Noct makes a strangled little noise of exasperation. This would be considerably harder, if he couldn't already feel Ignis's answer. Ever the strategist, Ignis is bound to dig for information even after he's decided on on a course of action. 

Still, it makes answering a little easier. "You're amazing," Noct says. "I just -- I want you to know."

Ignis hums. "That's very nice of you to say, Noct. But the implication was _rather_ more--"

"--I can't stop thinking about you, okay?" Fine, Noct gets the point Ignis is gentle enough to leave hanging. _Good job_ isn't exactly the way anyone sane propositions someone for a … relationship? Dating experience? _Partnership_ , which isn't particularly romantic either, but the built-in addition of _lifetime_ adds uncommon dimension. "I tried. It was stupid, and it didn't work, and I don't _want_ to."

Noct can feel how hot his face is, but it's a distant concern. Now that he's finally managed to spit out the important bit, the rest seems pretty inconsequential. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Iggy. I know that." He huffs an odd sound, a little uncomfortable in his relief. "I want to be that for you, too."

"Simple as that?"

"I'm into simple," Noct shrugs, and all but pushes the flowers into Ignis's arms. Ignis laughs again, rich and soft and Noct thinks he could wrap himself up in that sound and stay forever. With his hands finally free, he can slip his arms into the sleeves of Ignis's jacket, and then reach out to curl his hands against Ignis's shoulders. Noct wants so badly to lean in, to break up this lingering knot of tension in his gut with some sort of affirmative answer, maybe even a kiss --

Ignis leans into Noct's hands. "How fortunate for us both, then," he says quietly, "that you already are."

Noct doesn't remember bending in further. (In retrospect, he'll note that he was only just aware enough to keep from crushing the lilies between them.) What holds his attention is the way Ignis's lips feel against his own for the very first time, soft and yielding and a little tentative, a faint undertaste of chocolate and fennel. It's sweet and undemanding, nothing at all like what he'd imagined during those years of bottled-up fantasies. Noct isn't bothered by that -- it's not the _idea_ of Ignis that Noct adores, after all, and he'd rather have the real thing, besides.

When Noct draws back, he can't help the shaky, crooked smile pulling at his mouth. And with the way Ignis is looking at him? He doesn't even want to _try_. Instead, he licks his lower lip, focusing on the spread of color across Ignis's face beneath the glow of the sodium lights hanging overhead. 

"I wish I'd done that a while ago," Noctis mutters.

Ignis arches a brow. "Your father's wrath might be hard enough to withstand for this, Noct, without my having debauched his underage son to contend with as well."

Noct is both irritated by his father's intrusion into the conversation, but pleased to be allowed to consider Ignis and debauchery in the same line of thought. " _Debauched_ myself plenty in your name anyway, Specs. You might as well get in on it."

It's a bold thing to say. Noct finds himself surprised by the new flush of color high on Ignis's cheeks, the way his eyes widen as he opens his mouth and then promptly shuts it again. A rare moment, catching Ignis off-guard like that. Noct can't help but savor it.

"Slow down, your highness," Ignis murmurs around that flare of embarrassment, but he seems far more amused than scandalized, so Noct claims it as a win.

(Not that it's something either of them take to heart, despite half-hearted attempts. The driver's seat of Ignis's car stays unscathed that night by the graces of physics and inexperience and little else.)

The week that follows the festival is a degradation of sorts, the veneer of Ignis's self-laid professional boundaries eroded by lingering touches and mutual longing, tension taking shape like a third presence between them. Noct finds himself repeatedly shocked by the shift -- how Ignis does all the same things he always has, only now without guarding the sentiment behind them, and suddenly it's impossible to imagine he'd ever felt any other way.

(Once or twice, it makes Noct wonder which of them has been _more_ blind.)

For people who have structured so much of their lives around preordained roles and merciless self-denial, the invitation to reach _beyond_ these things is a temptation too vast to ignore. 

Unsurprisingly, _inevitably_ , it's Noct that cracks first. The easy lean against Ignis's side during a docu-drama about Lestallum's less savory pioneers becomes boredom-inspired kisses, soft and seeking: jaw, mouth, neck, and Noct learns quickly that Ignis will fall right to pieces beneath just the right pressure of teeth against his throat. Hands tugging at shiny black buttons, exposing a long stripe of pale, smooth skin; the faintest smell of expensive cologne and the taste of salt heavy on Noct's tongue as Ignis allows himself to be pushed further into the cushions and stripped bare.

It becomes green, green eyes flickering wide behind sleek silver frames when Noct kicks off his worn sweats and kneels over Ignis's lap, each kiss a claim as he curls his fingers tight around Ignis, hot and hard and trembling.

_There were bodies in the river that day,_ drawls the woman on the television screen, but the only thing Noct is listening to is the wet hitch of Ignis's breath against his ear when Noct whispers _please_ , the whisper of skin against skin as Ignis's arms slide around his neck and curl tightly. Noct takes his relative inexperience in stride, years of imagined _would_ and _could_ giving way to the sharp edges of a reality where Ignis's quiet little noises into Noct's mouth distract him from the burn of his own slick fingers.

It becomes far more than in the stillness before Noct slips his eyes almost shut, when he's taken Ignis in as deep as he'll go and Noct swears he can feel his body shaking beneath his spread thighs. He can definitely feel it between their joined hands, in the way Ignis's fingernails pressing deep crescents into the thin skin behind his knuckles, in the look of fear and wonder leaving Ignis's shadowed face slack and unguarded when Noct looks down at him from under the ink-black fall of his hair. 

_Slow down_ , Ignis had said back then. 

This time, he asks for no such thing. Not when Noct braces his hands against Ignis's chest and matches the instinctive snap of his hips. Not when Ignis comes first with a surprised gasp and Noct's fingers tighten hard, increasing his own pace for a few fragmented, punishing strokes that leave Ignis wiping tears from his eyes, until Noct's body clenches tight around his cock and wrings him utterly dry.

Certainly not when Noct shudders his way off of him, tipping forward to rest sprawled against his damp chest and dazedly comes up with twelve different ways to say _I love you_ without using any part of that one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super sorry for the delay; I got a bit sidetracked with some other projects and this one kinda fell by the wayside for a while. Shockingly, I'm pretty sure this is the longest thing I've ever gone so far as to call _finished_.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope the ending is satisfying enough to have waited for, despite feeling kind of abrupt. I might come back and rework it a bit at a later date, but for now I think it stands fairly enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to post this all in one go, but I'm not quite done yet (and super impatient, whoops) and also it's, as usual, getting way longer than I intended it to be. I'm not going to get graphic with the underage stuff -- the inevitable porn will be un-jailbaity and guilt-free, I promise.
> 
> Inspiration and quotes liberally lifted from Ben Howard's new song of the same title (holy shit you guys I'm hype for this album). Further inspiration from the lovely Ignoct nerds I've had the privilege of getting to know since joining this fandom -- you know who you are, and how much I love you!


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